


it's plain to see

by bropunzeling



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor McDavid can literally fly, which in Jack's opinion is the most unfair thing in the world.</p><p>"I can see the headlines now," Jack groans. "<i>Jack Eichel Fades In Comparison to Canada's Superboy</i>."</p><p>Hanny doesn't look away from <i>Real Housewives</i>. "You're just being dramatic."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's plain to see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meerminne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerminne/gifts).



> dear meerminne: i really really really hope this works for you!!!! i'm glad you let me write out all my mceichel and my superpower feelings.
> 
> thank you thank you thank you to: tori, who told me how the second half should go and not to chuck everything in the trash, and kate who fixed like LITERALLY EVERYTHING and read through this six hours before the due date.

Connor McDavid can literally fly, which in Jack’s opinion is the most unfair thing in the world.

“Of fucking course,” he says, flopping back on the hotel bed and twisting his head to look at Hanny. They just had all their power disclosures, not that it matters much because everybody knows everything about everyone in the NHL. Everyone knows Connor McDavid can fly, just like they know that Dylan Strome is a null and Jack can –

Well, Jack can turn invisible, which just fucking figures.

But now the media knows for sure, which means that Jack has about ten fun articles to look forward to about how Jack “pales in comparison” or some other shit, or how no wonder McDavid is going to go first overall considering he can _literally fly_.

“You know it doesn’t matter,” Hanny says in his stupid reasonable voice. “It’s not like he’s literally going to fly down the ice.”

“You wouldn’t know that from the articles,” Jack says darkly.

“And you’re not going to pick up your Buffalo jersey like the Invisible Man –“

“Fuck off,” Jack says half-heartedly. 

“So there’s no reason to worry,” Hanny finishes, sounding as smug as a null who will never have to worry about the utter humiliation of having useless powers.

Jack doesn’t say there’s always a reason to worry, because for one thing Hanny will just ignore him, but for another Hanny already knows. Instead he rolls onto his stomach and asks, “Want to watch _Real Housewives_?”

Hanny starts laughing like a moron – “Your taste in TV is the worst, bro” – but he gets up to get the remote anyways. He’s good like that.

-

The draft is pretty much a blur, even though it goes exactly as Jack thought. Well, as he thought, not as he hoped, but at least he doesn’t have to go to fucking Edmonton. 

His name is called and he stands up, hugs his parents, goes up to pull his new oversized jersey over his head. Puts on the baseball cap, shakes hands, gets shuffled off stage. He’s in front of a scrum, then shoved into a top three photo with McDavid and Dylan Strome awkwardly close, then back to the reporters. Every time he blinks he’s somewhere else, lights bright and voices overwhelming and Jesus fucking Christ, this is a lot.

He’s just answering a question about – Buffalo? Maybe? All he knows is that he’s saying he’s excited, when –

“Jack,” someone says, “are you,” and Jack glances down at his hands and freezes.

They’re turning translucent.

 _Fuck_.

He looks back at the reporters and clenches his hands tighter, even though his mom’s constant refrain of “That only makes it worse, honey” is echoing in his head. “Thanks for all your questions,” he says, and then he slips out behind Strome’s media scrum to find some random hallway, some place without people, just so he can breathe.

He leans against the cinderblock, presses his fingernails into his palms. He is here, and he is present, and he is visible, goddammit, so if his hands could get the memo that would be fan-fucking-tastic.

“Are you okay?”

Jack looks up to see Connor fucking McDavid, because of course.

“Fine,” he bites out. “Just – overwhelmed.”

McDavid – he fucking leans against the wall next to Jack, what the fuck, can’t he just go away?

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice just sounds so small. “Is it – is it okay if I hide here too?”

“No” is what Jack wants to say, “fuck off” is what Jack really wants to say, but at some point his mom taught him not to be a jackass and so he says, “Yeah, sure, if you want.”

They stand there in awkward silence for a while, Jack steadily breathing in through his nose and willing away the pinprick sensation that means his fingers are still invisible. Sometimes – most of the time – he wishes he could control it better, but if wishes were horses he’d have ridden down to the podium to pick up his first overall jersey.

“Are you…” McDavid starts, but then he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Jack does him the courtesy of staring straight at the opposite wall, flexing his fingers slowly like he’s holding a therapy ball. His knuckles are starting to feel normal at least. Maybe in a couple minutes he’ll have fingertips again.

“Sorry,” McDavid says, and that’s strange enough that Jack turns to look at him. McDavid’s pressed up against the wall, lips pressed together so hard that they’re turning white, and when Jack glances at his feet, he can see that they’re a full inch and a half off the floor.

“You’re floating,” Jack says, sounding like an idiot, because as Hanny would tell him he pretty much is.

McDavid turns to glare at him, lips going even whiter. “I can’t – fuck,” he says, huffing out a sigh. “I wish these jerseys actually had nullifiers.”

“No fucking shit,” Jack replies, going back to flexing his fingers over and over.

They stand there for another minute at least, before McDavid says, “Do you want to exchange numbers?”

Jack turns to stare at him so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He’s pretty sure he lost all the progress on bringing back his left hand. “What?”

For his part, McDavid’s ears are turning bright red. “It’s just – you’re one of the only guys who gets it, with the powers, and the pressure, and – I don’t know.”

“You have friends,” Jack says, which definitely comes out more dickish than he intended, but he can’t take it back now.

“Stromer’s useless about this shit,” McDavid says, gesturing at his feet, which are still stubbornly above the ground. “Besides, he’s not – he isn’t going to save the franchise. You know?”

“Right,” Jack says slowly. He still doesn’t know why McDavid would want to talk to him – they have totally different powers, for one, and for another Jack has been not so subtle about the fact that he’s just not interested in talking about Connor McDavid ever, to anyone, and that he’s just fucking sick of all the comparisons, thanks.

But then again, it’s not like giving Connor his number means they actually have to talk.

“Sure,” he finally says. “Why not.”

-

It’s not until August that Jack even hears from Connor, only to get, _You’re coming to the powers training thing, right?_

Jack blinks, then swipes over to his email and shifts through the spam folder to find some official-looking bullshit from the NHL about –

“Mandatory motherfucking powers training. For three days! What can they even talk about for three days?” he tells Hanny over FaceTime while throwing his shit into a duffle bag. “This is bullshit.”

Hanny just laughs at him.

“Seriously! Three days of people telling me not to abuse my powers or reading through the fucking CBA or whatever.”

“I don’t know, you could just invisibly trip someone up before a game,” Hanny says with a laugh.

“Fuck you, I’m not a cheat,” Jack says grumpily.

“At least you’ll know someone,” Hanny replies.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jack says with a sigh. 

It is nice, when Jack shows up exhausted and overheated at some generic Toronto conference center, to find Connor waiting around by the coffee carafes.

“Hey,” Connor says, smiling a little awkwardly. “Good flight?”

Jack pushes his sunglasses further up his head and groans at him. “Do we start with the lecturing?”

It turns out that they do. Jack finds himself sitting in an uncomfortable auditorium chair next to Connor and directly behind who he thinks is Joe Thornton, watching as some NHL stooge in an ill-fitting suit and blue tie drones on about their CBA “ability safeguard requirements”.

“Remember to attend all mandatory ability training sessions,” Blue Tie drones on, waving around his slide clicker and sounding like Jack’s least favorite Econ professor at BU. “Any missed sessions will result in a one-game suspension.”

“Jesus,” Connor breathes. He’s still sitting up ramrod straight, like to prove what a good little Canadian he is. Jack has given up on ever paying attention in favor of sliding further into his seat and wondering if his baseball cap will disguise how fucking tired he is.

“Any unauthorized displays of powers on the rink will result in a five-game suspension. No exceptions,” Blue Tie continues. In the row in front of Jack, Joe Thornton looks like he’s falling asleep.

“I hope we get lunch soon,” Jack mumbles, tipping his head back against the auditorium seat.

“At least look like you’re paying attention,” Connor hisses.

Jack rolls his eyes and tugs his hat lower.

After going over every single footnote of the CBA, Blue Tie finally lets them go to get lunch. “So,” Jack says, sticking close to Connor since he still hasn’t seen literally anyone he knows, “do you know good places to eat?”

Connor snorts. “Of course,” he says, affronted. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Could be trying to take me out before I outscore you.”

“That won’t happen,” Connor replies, equally confident.

“What, the taking me out?” Jack asks.

“The outscoring,” Connor says, grinning at Jack over his shoulder. “Do you like pho?”

-

 _Hey_ Connor sends the next week. It’s kind of surprising since they didn’t really talk at the conference at all, really, besides going to lunch together and complaining about how fucking long the lectures are. 

Jack means to reply, but then he forgets between getting ready for camp and eating all of Alicia’s lasagna, and then Ahti’s sent the most ridiculous snapchat which obviously means its time for an all-out snap war.

It’s not until he checks his phone on the first day of training camp that he realizes he never actually got around to texting Connor back. He only notices because Connor sends him another text, this one reading, _Excited for camp?_

 _Are you?_ Jack replies as he stands half in his pads. _Also sorry I didn’t reply earlier. That was a shit move._

 _It’s okay_ , Connor sends five minutes later, when Jack’s managed to get out of his pants and down to his UnderArmor. _You were probably busy._

 _Still wasn’t cool_ , Jack texts back. He’s not an actual dick. He knows proper etiquette.

 _I forgive you :)_ he gets back ten minutes later, and it’s stupid, but that dumb little smiley face makes him smile down at his phone, a little.

Not that this means they’re friends now, of course, but still it’s – nice. 

-

All through camp Connor and Jack exchange post-practice selfies, with the occasional feature of the Moulson’s dog, who is equally exhausted to be alive as Jack is. Connor texts about practice, and the other rookies, and when he’s going to get his first goal.

 _Before you :p_ he sends, and now Jack has to defend his honor.

 _You wish_ , Jack sends quickly. Sam’s already promised to help him get his first goal, hitting him on the shoulder in practice and saying, “First shift, yeah?”

It doesn’t end up being the first shift, but it is the first game – power play, wrist shot, picture fucking perfect.

 _Congratulations :)_ Connor sends when Jack’s out getting mildly trashed with the rest of the team.

 _thankssssss_ Jack sends back, even as Evander starts singing – something. Beyonce?

 _Guess you beat me_ Connor replies.

Jack takes a long pull of beer. “Damn straight,” he says, putting his phone away as Evander starts going into the chorus of – oh that is Crazy in Love, Jack is a fucking genius.

“Damn straight what, rookie?” Ryan asks, leaning across the table.

Shaking his head, Jack laughs. “Damn straight I need another drink,” he says.

Sam slings an arm around his shoulders, shaking a little. “No fucking shit. Who’s invisible now?”

“Not this kid!” Marcus cheers.

Jack grins back at them, feeling his face flushing, and accepts the beer that Ryan shoves his way. It’s a good night.

-

Once the season starts getting going, Jack almost expects Connor to ease up on the texting. After all, now Connor has Taylor Hall and Yakupov to talk to, people who know exactly what Connor’s going through – complete with the whole playing for the Oilers part. Jack’s just his awkward sort of rival slash cute animal pictures recipient.

But every day when Jack gets back from practice, he finds something from Connor – a picture of Yakupov’s dog, or a grumpy text about bag skates, or something mean about Hall’s cooking skills, all coming in like clockwork. And every day, Jack texts back.

It’s weird. He knows it’s weird – it’s not like they know each other that well, still. Jack doesn’t know about Connor’s fucking hopes and dreams or whatever, and Connor doesn’t know about his, and Jack prefers it that way.

But still, there’s a part of him that looks forward to seeing Connor’s texts, to each new dog photo and string of grumpy emojis, to Connor’s perfect grammar and weird Canadian spelling and even weirder sincerity.

 _Look at this baby_ , Connor sends, complete with a picture Nail’s fluffy princess dog rolling around on the floor. It distracts Jack from fending off Mila, who tackles him with a shout and kicks him in the stomach, but Jack doesn’t really mind.

“Cute dog,” Matt says, stepping over the phone and hoisting Mila off Jack’s stomach.

“It’s a – friend’s,” Jack says, tripping over the word, but it’s not like there’s a simpler way to describe what they’re doing, what this is. He and Connor just – are something. Friend might be good enough.

-

Jack probably shouldn’t have expected much from a team that was tanking for Connor McDavid, but he had hoped, stupidly, that maybe after that first loss they could start doing better. 

October quickly proves him wrong.

Jack doesn’t want to get used to losing, and it fucking eats at him every single time they come away from a game limping. But Pittsburgh is maybe the worst, because they come so fucking close – they have a powerplay in the last two minutes, for fuck’s sake, and still they can’t pull out the goal, can’t pull out a win.

He’s furious when he comes off the ice and down into the locker room, furious and ashamed and bitter. It shouldn’t fucking hurt this much – he’s lost before, the team has fucking lost before, by a goal, even – but it just sucks that this is how they’re starting out, 3 and fucking 7. He could have taken more shots, he could have tried a little harder, and then maybe –

“Jack,” Gio says, and Jack glances down at his clenched fists to see that they’re fading away.

“Shit,” Jack says, sounding strangled. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth but the tingling feeling keeps spreading up to his elbows, his skin disappearing up past the sleeves of his UnderArmor. “ _Fuck_.”

“You okay buddy?” Ryan asks, sounding worried.

“I – it’s fine,” Jack says, but for all the deep breaths he takes and the efforts to relax, he’s still fading away. 

“You don’t look very fine,” Marcus says quietly.

“I have to –“ Jack stands up, legs feeling numb. When he glances down he sees the gaps between his socks and his shorts. 

“We’ll tell them you’re not feeling good,” Gio says authoritatively, in full captain voice. “Go.”

Jack awkwardly shuffles towards the trainer’s room, legs full of needles and hands aching. Pretty soon he’ll be totally gone, skin buzzing until he can calm down and work at reappearing, one inch of skin at a time.

Tim at least doesn’t seem too surprised to see what looks like empty clothes, wordlessly opening the door and gesturing towards the couch in the back. “Let me know if you want anything,” he says.

“Thanks,” Jack replies, only because he can’t get away with just nodding.

He doesn’t know how long he spends in that back room, taking one of the stress balls Tim offers him and slowly doing breath cycles. Eventually the tingling sensation fades, and he starts to see patches of skin, strange splotches of color against his clothes.

“You’ve been seeing Laura, right?” Tim asks quietly.

“Every Tuesday,” Jack replies. Just like the CBA tells him to, an hour of trying to induce the invisibility on his own and failing.

“Good,” Tim says. “That’s good.”

Finally Tim declares him visible enough to be good to go. “I think the boys are waiting for you,” he says, putting his phone in his pocket and offering Jack a hand. “The media won’t get any pictures.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, handing back the stress ball and slowly walking out towards the hall. His legs feel stiff and sore, partly because of the skating but partly because they always do when he loses control like this.

Most of the team is hanging in the hall, and they clap him on the back as he walks towards the room. “We’ll see you tomorrow, yes?” Z says, smiling at him. “Bright and early.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “For sure.”

“Good,” Z says. He follows the rest of the boys out of the hall into the maze of Consol’s tunnels. 

Matt waits in the hall until Jack’s suited up and ready to go. He doesn’t say anything as they head out towards the bus, just walks next to him slowly, and that’s good enough.

It’s later, when Jack’s about to fall asleep, that he decides on impulse to text Connor about it. _Went invisible today_.

 _Was it okay?_ Connor sends back a few seconds later.

 _No_ Jack sends. He rolls onto his side, curled around his phone as if to keep people from seeing. _Did it on accident_.

 _Sorry_ , Connor sends back. Then, _Were the guys okay?_

 _Yeah_ Jack replies. _They weren’t weird about it._

 _It’s nothing to be weird about_ , Connor replies, and it’s so – Jack can hear it, how sincerely Connor would say it in person. It helps, a little.

 _Thanks_ , Jack replies, and then he rolls over to fall asleep, phone on the pillow beside him. 

-

Jack doesn’t even hear about the collarbone at first. He doesn’t find out until hours after the fact, when he’s aimlessly going through Facebook and liking every picture one of the guys posts about their practice before the Northeastern match on Friday. Someone had posted a link to an article on Puck Daddy, and there’s video, and –

Shit.

Jack’s got his phone out before he can think it through, scrolling to his last text from Connor and hitting the phone button. The dial tone seems to go on forever until there’s a click on the other end.

“Hey,” he says, immediately feeling awkward. It’s not like they’re talk-on-the-phone people – even if they do text stupid shit, or whatever, that’s not – that’s not who they are.

But Connor doesn’t seem to notice how awkward Jack sounds. “Hi,” he says, a little slow and slurred.

“You on the good stuff?” Jack asks, sitting on his bed and looking out the window.

“Yep,” Connor says, popping the p.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and – he is, is the thing. Six months ago he probably wouldn’t have, or he would have, but he’d also be grateful that he wouldn’t be in constant competition, and he definitely wouldn’t have called to see how Connor is.

“Thanks,” Connor replies slowly.

“Think you’ll recover okay?” Jack asks.

Connor hums, a soft little sound that crackles over the phone. “Hope so,” he says. “I have surgery tomorrow. Gonna miss playing.”

“Just don’t come back too soon,” Jack says.

“So you can beat me in scoring?” Connor asks, with a hiccup of a laugh.

“Because you’ll hurt yourself more, dumbass,” Jack replies. “I’m not a total dick.”

“No,” Connor agrees companionably. “You’re not.”

It takes a second for Jack to work around the sudden lump in his throat. “So,” he says, coughing a little, “are you just resting then?”

“I’m floating,” Connor says. He sounds hazy, which Jack is hoping is just the Percocet talking. 

“Wait, really?” Jack asks.

“Mmhmm,” Connor hums. “Always do that when I’m on stuff.”

“That’s so weird.” Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable? Jack feels like he would want some support or something if he was as high as Connor seems to be.

“You’re weird,” Connor whines back.

Jack laughs. “Whatever,” he says. “I should probably let you sleep.”

Connor hums into the phone. “I guess.”

“You guess,” Jack repeats back at him with another laugh. “Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” Connor says in a huff. 

“Keep me posted,” Jack replies, and hangs up, feeling a little more relieved and not sure why he was so freaked out in the first place.

-

November slides into December, and the Sabres spend most of that sucking. Jack doesn’t go invisible again, thank god, but it’s frustrating to watch his team lose so goddamn badly and feel like there’s nothing he can do. 

If nothing else, however, at least he isn’t quite as frustrated as Connor, who’s clearly bored out of his mind on IR. Jack loses count of the number of pictures he gets of Connor on the couch watching what looks like horrible Canadian reality television, feet five inches off the couch cushions. 

Even knowing Connor’s bored still makes it a shock when Connor actually calls him in the middle of playing My Little Pony with Mila.

“’Lo?” Jack says in the middle of accepting the solemn responsibility of representing Rainbow Dash in what might be a tea party crossed with a horse race.

“Have you heard?” Connor says, voice short and thick, like he’s talking through a sock or something.

“Um… no,” Jack says slowly, even as Mila glares at him for taking away any of his attention from the very important tea race.

“Um -- I was just going outside,” Connor says. He sounds fucking miserable, like he has a cold and his dog has died all at once, but Jack still doesn’t know why. “Just in the courtyard, you know, and it’s so fucking cold here so I decided not to walk in the snow and fly a little and somebody took a picture.”

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, leaving Rainbow Dash on his lap. “And?”

“And now there’s like seven stories about how I’m endangering my recovery and reckless and – _fuck_ ,” Connor blurts out. “What if this fucks everything up for me?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks. Mila looks at him suspiciously, but he picks up Rainbow Dash again and runs her along towards Mila, who nods approvingly and goes back to the other ponies.

“They expect a lot, and – shit, what if they stop trusting me? I don’t want to be just some dumb kid who puts my recovery in danger.”

Jack stiffens. “You weren’t fu—you weren’t screwing up your recovery, so it doesn’t matter,” he whispers, because Mila keeps looking at him with her giant baby eyes like she’ll know every swearword he knows just by osmosis. “It would be stupid for them to hold this against you.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, “But – they probably will.”

Jack hums in reply because, well, it is Edmonton. They probably do that sort of shit. But it’s not normal to get yelled at for using your powers in private, and Connor should know that.

“Still,” he says finally. “They shouldn’t.”

“Thanks,” Connor replies. He still sounds miserable, but at least a little less miserable.

“Jack, you gotta play ponies now.”

Jack glances over to find Mila glaring at him, arms crossed and scowling. “Listen,” he says, “apparently I have to get back to a tea party –“

“It’s the teacup horse race,” Mila informs him, like he’s a moron.

“Right – teacup horse race,” Jack adds. “So I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor says, hiccupping a little. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Anytime,” Jack replies, and he means it.

-

_I hate these assholes._

Jack glances down at his phone after practice the next day and laughs. _What, new articles?_

 _Fuckkkkk the media_ Connor texts back, complete with a string of frowny faces.

 _You’re telling me_ , Jack types back before shoving his phone in his bag and grabbing his towel so he can hit the shower.

Thirty minutes later, Jack’s clean and in Matt’s car when he thinks to check his phone again and finds a string of unread messages.

_I had to go in today_

_Fucking fifteen reporters asking about the flying shit_

_Did you make the break worse? Do you think you’ll be back in time for a playoffs push?_

_Like seriously fuck off my chest fucking hurts leave me alone_

Tongue poking out of his mouth, Jack types back, _That’s reporters for you. Bunch of nosy assholes._

_Why can’t they leave me aloneeeee_

_Whiner_ , Jack replies with a stifled laugh.

“What’re you giggling about?” Matt asks.

“Nothing,” Jack replies, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Just a friend.”

-

At some point – Jack doesn’t know when, but at some point, texting Connor has become a routine part of Jack’s day.

“So you’re pen pals,” Hanny says after they play the Canes in the end of November, sitting in a bar in Buffalo and trying not to freeze to death from inferior heating by eating their weight in wings.

“Well, no,” Jack replies, then, “Okay, maybe – shut up.”

“You!” Hanny snorts. “I can’t believe you. Fucking pen pals with McDavid – if your PR person knew –“

“Well, they won’t,” Jack snaps back. “Besides it’s not – it’s like, you know. He gets it. The pressure, and the whole having powers thing.”

“Uh huh,” Hanny says slowly. He’s totally mocking Jack, which is rude as fuck considering they just creamed the Canes 4-1. 

“Fuck off,” Jack replies, grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I am allowed to talk to people other than you and BU guys.”

“I mean technically yes,” Hanny says, “but Jack – this is _Connor McDavid_. AKA the last person on earth I can picture you texting every single day. Like you’re fucking married.”

“We’re not – go fuck yourself,” Jack says, feeling very persecuted in the face of Hanny’s laughter. “He just gets it, you know? It’s nice to have a friend who does, unlike some assholes I could mention who are laughing at me, dickwad.”

“Fine, fine, I won’t judge you and McDavid’s weird pen pal thing – is it a freaky sex thing? Because bro I – stop!” Hanny laughs even harder as Jack pelts him with celery, which, serves him right. Like it’s a sex thing. Please. That would involve Jack wanting to fuck Connor McDavid.

Jack is 98% sure he doesn’t want to fuck Connor McDavid.

“Whatever,” Jack says, feeling magnanimous in his victory and also wanting to make sure he has enough celery to get through his wings. “Clearly me being friends with someone is just too hard for you to understand.”

“Yep,” Hanny replies cheerfully, grabbing another wing. “Happy you’re actually getting along, though. That’ll make Worlds that much easier.”

“Hear fucking hear.” Jack lifts his beer, and then, because beer, drains it. “Who do you think will be on that team?”

“Well,” Hanny starts, and then they spend the rest of the night gossiping about U-23s, and thankfully not whether or not Jack and Connor have a freaky sex thing going.

Which, Jack would like to point out, he doesn’t want. But even if he did, they don’t. Whatever. Clearly Trouba is going to be captain, and all of Hanny’s pulling for Seth Jones is misguided and in poor taste, and Jack is going to tell him so.

Especially if it means they stop talking about him and Connor. That’s the important part.

-

Not long after they play Hanny, they go to Detroit.

Jack hates shootout losses the worst, he thinks. None of them can manage to score on Mrazek, and even though Jack knows Abdelkader has his nullifier jersey just like Jack does and that he can’t just tug the puck towards him, he can still feel the guy getting under his skin every time the puck skitters towards his stick.

So they lose, and it fucking – god. If Jack had just scored in the shoot out to match Richards, or in overtime, or had done anything, really, it wouldn’t sting like this. There were so many good chances he gave up, so many shots that went the wrong way, and he hates how used to losing he’s getting, hates how the postseason keeps sliding further and further out of their reach.

They go back to the hotel, and immediately Jack rolls into bed, ignoring Sam in favor of staring at the wall. When he checks his phone, he finds a text from Connor.

_:((((_

_I’m sorry._

_Wish I could fly_ , Jack texts, burrowed in the covers, still replaying the way Mrazek batted away the puck, the way he lost it for them. He can feel the tingling in his feet like they fell asleep, knowing that inch by inch he’s fading away.

He falls asleep like that, cocooned in the blankets, phone three inches from his face. When he wakes up too warm at 2 am, he finds a reply.

_I can take you, if you want._

-

December just drags on, making Jack feel like he’s played a year and not just a few months. The season weighs him down like pads that are too heavy. All he wants to do is sleep.

He tells Connor this when Connor calls him, restless from all the waiting in his apartment in an effort to avoid photographers. Connor just hums back at him.

“I just want to – get away from everything,” Jack says, desperately trying not to yawn into the phone. “Just not be there, for a while. You know?”

“Yeah,” Connor says softly.

There’s a pause, and Jack catches himself following Connor’s breath, listening to him inhale and exhale and matching each one. It’s soothing, somehow, and Jack feels even more tired than he did before.

“Hey,” Connor asks over the phone, voice sounding tired and smooth, like he’s had a few drinks. “What are you doing at the end of January?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks, yawning into the phone. The hotel alarm clock reads 11:38. He should probably go to sleep.

“All-Star Break,” Connor says, voice cracking a little. “You have plans?”

“No,” Jack says slowly.

Connor makes a humming noise, something soft. “Come here,” he says.

“Here,” Jack repeats.

“To Edmonton,” Connor says. “That’s pretty far from everything, wouldn’t you think?”

Jack laughs a little. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replies, leaning back into his pillow and closing his eyes.

“Well?” Connor asks. “Want to?”

Jack hums, keeping his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

-

When Jack asks Matt for a ride to the airport, Matt looks at him weirdly, but agrees.

“Who do you even know in Edmonton?” Matt asks, hands ten and two on the steering wheel as he navigates his way towards Buffalo Niagara.

“Just a friend.”

“A friend,” Matt repeats. “Is this the same friend you’re always talking about?”

Jack can feel his cheeks heating up. “I can have friends,” he says before he can stop himself from sounding stupidly whiney.

“Yes, you can,” Matt says in his reasonable parenting voice.

“Sorry,” Jack says. “But, uh, yeah. A friend.”

“Sure,” Matt replies, turning into the Departures loop. “Text me when you land, yeah?”

Jack nods. “Thanks,” he says, before grabbing his bag and hopping out of the car to head inside.

A couple layovers later, Jack finds himself greeted by Connor in front of what he’s guessing is Taylor Hall’s car. “That thing is ugly,” he says, taking in the silver monstrosity.

“I know,” Connor says, sounding mortified. “I don’t understand why he has it.”

“Well, as long as you can drive me places,” Jack says, giving an exaggerated shiver. “Remind me why I came up here?”

Connor just sticks his tongue out at him.

They go back to Connor’s house. Apparently Hall is out for the day – something with Nugent-Hopkins, Jack thinks, though he isn’t really sure – so they’re on their own for now.

“I don’t know what you want to do,” Connor says, letting them in and gesturing around the house with a shrug. “I mean, we could watch dumb TV? It’s just too fucking cold to do anything outside, you know?”

“Makes sense,” Jack replies, setting his bag down in the hall and toeing off his shoes. He follows Connor down the hall into the living room in his socks, sliding a little on some tile. “But yeah, that sounds fine.”

“Cool,” Connor says. “Well, this is our couch.” He gestures towards the couch – a massive leather monstrosity that Jack is 99% sure is Taylor Hall’s fault.

“I can see that,” Jack says.

“Right,” Connor says, sitting stiffly at one end of the couch and grabbing the remote. “What do you want to watch?”

They end up marathoning the Food Network, watching four episodes of _Chopped_ in a row. Jack never knew he was capable of such strong opinions about cooking, considering that he, you know, can’t, but apparently he really dislikes people who put cilantro on everything. Connor, to Jack’s utter lack of surprise, just wants everyone to succeed, and gets nervous whenever a judge says anything mildly critical. Watching the show seems to get Connor to relax a little out of his stiffness, slinging his feet up on the coffee table and listing towards Jack.

“This show always makes me hungry,” he says, as someone puts together an entrée with macaroons for no apparent reason.

“I mean, you can eat something,” Jack tells him, glancing over.

“But nothing as good as what they make,” Connor says sulkily. He’s leaning even closer to Jack, close enough that their hands are almost touching.

“Well, I can’t help you with that,” Jack says, tipping his head back.

Connor just huffs at him. It’s so – it’s like they’ve done this before, sat around and watched horrible TV and just been around each other, and it’s so different than anything Jack would’ve thought could happen. He never pictured this, and he wants to know if Connor had, if Connor had seen this coming.

“Why did you decide to start talking to me?” Jack asks, turning his head and glancing over at Connor across the couch. “It’s not like we were friends.”

“I –“ Connor starts, and then stops, thinking. “I wanted to be, though.”

“Why?” Jack asks, startled. “I’m not – I’m not _nice_.”

“No,” Connor says easily, “but you’re funny, and good at hockey, and you’re not as much of an asshole as you think you are.”

“Thanks,” Jack drawls.

Connor laughs. “And – I thought you’d get it, the expectations, and the powers, and – and you did.”

Jack hums in reply. “I guess that’s fair.”

Nodding, Connor opens his mouth to say something else – and then shuts it.

“What?” Jack asks.

“What?” Connor repeats back.

“You were going to say something.”

“I –“ Connor stops, again, and then finally says, “There’s something else, too.”

“Something else.” Jack squints at him. “That’s descriptive.”

With a huff, Connor turns to look at him. He’s a lot closer than he was before. It should maybe make Jack uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. It’s sort of weirdly exhilarating, actually, like there’s some part of him that wants Connor to relax a little more, to get a little closer, to stop holding back.

“It’s just – I thought maybe, if we talked, if we were friends, then I could – then we could –“ Connor trails off.

“ _What?_ ” Jack asks.

For a second, Jack can see Connor hesitating. He can see how Connor presses his lips together, how his fingers clench into the couch cushion, and then he can see the exact second Connor stops hesitating, because then he’s moving forward and kissing him.

Connor’s kissing him.

Connor sits back almost before Jack can process it, looking horrified at himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I should’ve – I _shouldn’t_ – shit.”

“Wait,” Jack says without thinking. “You –“

“Fuck,” Connor says, recoiling back into the opposite arm of the couch. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Fuck, Jack –“

“ _Wait_ ,” Jack repeats. “You wanted to date me?”

Looking miserable, Connor nods.

Well. That changes things.

Or – no, actually. He thinks about it, and maybe it was like Hanny said, that they talked a lot for just being friends. That how close they are was a little weird. Maybe this is just the next step. From text messages to phone calls to visits to this, him on one end of the couch and Connor on the other, three feet between them.

Jack thinks about it, and then he closes the gap.

Connor tastes like peppermint chapstick. His hands are big and warm and he makes a shocked little sound when Jack kisses him, knees knocking together and elbows banging into the back of the couch. He makes a surprised noise when Jack pushes him down and an appreciative noise when Jack kisses him harder. Jack wants to know all the noises he can get Connor to make, every shocked little sound.

“Jack,” Connor says, and Jack opens his eyes to find Connor staring at him in disbelief. “You – really?”

“Yeah,” Jack says with a shrug. “I like you.” He leans down to start kissing Connor some more, because that was pretty great.

Connor pushes at his chest. “But you – are you sure?”

“Are you?” Jack asks right back.

“Yeah,” Connor says automatically, “but I don’t – don’t do this because you feel bad for me.”

“Trust me,” Jack says, pushing at Connor’s shoulders until he’s laying all the way flat and shoving a thigh between Connor’s legs, “I don’t feel bad for you. I’m doing this because I like you.”

“Oh,” Connor says, looking shocked and pleased and a little pink.

“Can I get back to kissing you?” Jack asks.

In reply, Connor grabs his shoulders and yanks him down.

Kissing Connor McDavid should, Jack is pretty sure, feel something like kissing Hockey Jesus if one were to trust beat reporters. Jack can’t say it’s quite like that, but it is pretty fucking great, because now Connor is even more on board, and Connor on board kisses hard enough to bruise. Jack gets one hand in Connor’s hair and one up his shirt and it’s great, and Connor rolls his hips up against him and it’s great, and Connor gets a hand on Jack’s ass and it’s even better. Connor has nice thighs that are great to grind on and nice abs that are good to run his hands along. Connor has nice everything, and Jack could keep on touching all of him for hours.

Except for how Connor’s shirt is in the way.

“You should take this off,” Jack says, plucking at Connor’s t-shirt and making a face. Connor makes a face right back, but sits up and pulls it over his head, revealing skin and skin and more skin.

“You too,” Connor says, glaring at Jack. Jack sighs, but follows him and takes off his own shirt. 

“Better?” he asks.

Connor nods, and then yanks Jack down onto his elbows so they’re chest to chest, barely an inch between them.

Shirtless kissing is even better than all previous kissing, simply because now Jack gets to touch skin, which is like it’s own fucking miracle. Connor is warm and his skin is smooth and he makes even more noises now that Jack can touch more of him, sighing and inhaling sharply when Jack strokes his fingers down Connor’s side, or runs his nails over Connor’s stomach. A pinch of Connor’s nipple gets him a hip roll, and doing it again gets Connor grabbing at his arms, swearing softly and bucking his hips up, which Jack doesn’t mind a bit.

As Jack keeps going, kissing Connor and twisting his nipples and ignoring the way his support arm is shaking, he can feel Connor getting hard against his hip. Jack’s own dick is getting hard too, to the point where Jack’s skinny jeans are feeling a little too tight. It’s worth it though just for the way he can feel Connor against him, can feel how much Connor wants him with every noise and grind and broken-off curse.

When Jack reaches around to grab Connor’s back, he realizes he can’t feel the couch.

“Um,” Jack says, sitting up and looking down at Connor only to find that Connor’s floating. There’s a full three inches of clearance, enough space for Jack to avoid the couch and Connor’s skin.

“You’re floating,” Jack says stupidly. It feels like déjà vu.

“No fucking shit,” Connor groans, looking up at Jack through his lashes, which is just criminally unfair.

“Do you – does this always happen?” Jack asks, still holding his hand under Connor’s back, expecting to touch skin and leather and instead finding air.

“I don’t fucking know, sometimes? Can you just –“ Connor groans, frustrated, and bucks his hips up – which, to be fair, is a pretty strong argument.

“You want your jeans off?” Jack asks.

Connor makes a noise like he’s been punched, which, well. Jack can’t exactly say no to that.

Getting Connor out of his jeans is pretty easy when he’s not in contact with the couch. Jack has to stand up to get his off, though, which seems unfair in the scheme of things. He can’t complain when Connor makes another of his noises and grabs Jack’s arm, pulling him back on top of Connor so they’re flush. Jack can feel Connor’s dick even better, and when he pulls back a little, he can see the way it’s straining against the elastic of his boxer briefs, a small wet spot dark against the cotton.

“Shit,” Jack says with feeling, and then he tugs down Connor’s underwear to around his thighs and gets a hand on him.

Connor makes a lot of noise, which isn’t surprising, but Jack is so into it that it hurts. Every sound Connor makes when Jack does something good, like run his thumb over the head or twist the upstroke, goes straight to Jack’s own dick. As Jack jerks Connor off he watches Connor float even higher off the couch, almost half a foot away, one foot braced on a cushion and head tilting back into mid air.

“This is weirdly hot,” he tells Connor.

Connor groans at him. “Less talk, more – _fuck_ ,” he says when Jack starts moving faster, speeding up the rhythm and taking the opportunity to get his fingers wet with Connor’s precome and make things go a little smoother.

It doesn’t take long – Jack thinks it’s maybe a few minutes of him jerking off Connor hard and fast, and then Connor’s hips are bucking into thin air and his back is bowed and he’s moaning low in his throat. 

Connor comes all over Jack’s hand and then crashes back onto the couch.

“Fuck,” Jack says, watching Connor breath hard, chest pink and splotchy and mouth red. Connor slides open his eyes and nods, wordlessly.

Jack gives Connor a few seconds, watching his chest rise and fall, and then makes a complaining noise. “You going to help out?”

Connor opens his eyes just to roll them at Jack. “Get all that off,” he says, gesturing at Jack.

Jack rolls his eyes right back, but gets on his feet and pulls off his boxers, ignoring how Connor’s come is going to make them all sticky. He falls right back on top of Connor as soon as he’s done, and hisses at the feeling of his dick sliding against Connor’s stomach, forehead thumping against Connor’s shoulder.

“That good for you?” Connor asks, in that secretly dickish way he has. It sucks that Jack finds it really fucking hot.

“Jerk me off already,” Jack mumbles into Connor’s neck.

Connor laughs, and then his hand wraps around Jack’s dick. Jack groans – Connor seems to know just the right way to get Jack off hard and fast, twisting just hard enough, going just fast enough, and Jack definitely isn’t going to last.

“Is it okay if I –“ he mumbles, and he feels Connor nod against his temple. It’s enough permission for Jack to stop trying to hold back, to close his eyes and buck his hips and shake apart.

They lay on the couch for a while. Jack doesn’t really know how long – he’s lost track of time, simply feeling Connor breathe.

"You're going fuzzy," Connor says, tapping Jack's shoulder.

"Whatever," Jack groans. He guesses his shoulder feels a little tingly.

"It's kind of cool," Connor replies, running his fingers along Jack's shoulder blade. Even that makes Jack shiver, a little.

Jack rolls his eyes, even though Connor can't see him doing it. "Glad you think so," he drawls.

When Connor laughs, Jack can feel his chest shaking. “That was good, though,” he says, and Jack nods into his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, “we should do it again sometime.”

-

After dinner – KD, hot dogs, and broccoli, a real culinary masterpiece – Connor takes him into the backyard. “Don’t be a baby,” he says, laughing as Jack bundles up.

“Fuck off,” Jack says, pulling his Sabres hat over his ears. “I like warmth. What are we even going outside for?”

Connor doesn’t say anything, just closes the sliding door and tramps out into the backyard. The snow crunches underneath his feet.

“Come out here,” he says, and Jack follows.

The sky is dark already, and the stars are starting to come up. Connor tilts his head up and grabs Jack’s hand, his fingers warm. “I want to show you something,” he says.

“Okay,” Jack says. He watches Connor’s face, because he has permission now to look, to stare at Connor’s eyes and jaw and the way his hair falls in his face.

Connor looks at him, and grabs Jack’s other hand, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t let go,” he says, and then he looks up.

For a second, nothing happens. Then –

Jack’s stomach swoops as they soar upwards, further and further until the wind chills Jack’s fingers and toes. Connor doesn’t let go of him, grip iron strong, as he says, “Look down, Jack.”

Jack looks down, and sees the world.


End file.
